Hoofbeats
by Diane Langley
Summary: “However, it was a moment of breathless connection with danger, and in that second, Ginny found that she liked playing with fire.” [ONESHOT]


Hogwarts had a stable, tucked away on the far eastern edge of the Forbidden Forest, where only a handful of students each year knew about it. The old caretaker, a silver-haired man named Eli Phillips, only had twelve students who regularly came through and rode. That didn't bother him any, though. He groomed, fed, and cared for each of the horses with a passion that defied his age. His bones rattled too much for riding these days, but he loved to teach, and many a student had found talent under his instruction.

Since the stable was so far from the main castle and so rarely visited, those that came there often felt like it was a secret place, a world where they were away from everything else they knew. Among the horses, Slytherins would speak to Gryffindors. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were equals in intelligence because sense and horse sense were often two very different things. Eli liked his place, caring for the horses, and getting to know the people in the modern world who still saw the use of horses. These animals were not just a means of transportation. They were the source of a passion and fire that could not be found anywhere else.

Eli liked passing on this fire to the students who came out here. He watched it manifest itself in many ways, but one evening, a cold autumn evening that faded into one hell of a night, brought forth the most incredible result of this passion he had ever, even indirectly, borne witness to. And he wasn't the only one who would never forget it.

X

A young woman walked across the lawn towards the stable, feet crunching in the multi-colored leaves that rested over the browning grass. Her breath hung in the air ahead of her, like a young dragon puffing out smoke, and she pulled her jacket tighter around her to ward off the icy breeze. Red hair, twisted into a low bun, revealed her identity. No one with that hue of crimson could be anything but a Weasley. A smile played on Ginny's lips as she reached the double doors to the barn and pushed her way inside. It was a cavernous building.

Whickers and whinnies greeted her entrance, and she pulled the doors shut. It was warm inside, and she breathed a sigh of relief, slipping her jacket off. She was wearing tight jeans, dirty brown riding boots, and a clover-green sweater, bringing out the light in her eyes. Walking over to a stall on the right, she whistled softly.

"Hey Belle," she said as a chestnut red head thrust out of the stall door. It was a small mare of about fifteen hands, with a fiery coat and a sugary-sweet disposition. Belle was gentle as a summer breeze and a dream to ride, sensitive and relaxed. Ginny, who had been coming to the stable for three years now, had found a clear favorite in Belle. The mare snorted, snuffling at her pocket for a treat. Ginny produced a sugar cube, much to Belle's delight.

"She's certainly glad to see you," a deep, familiar voice called. Ginny turned with a smile to greet Eli, who was leant against the door to his office. He was holding a bridle, half apart, and a sponge, obviously in the middle of weekly tack cleaning.

"I hope so, sir. I'm glad for a chance to ride. D'ya mind if I take her out?" she replied curiously, stroking Belle's neck as the mare sniffed at her hair.

"Not in the least. You know how she is in the cold, though, so start her out slow. Her muscles will be stiff," he advised. "Otherwise, yeah, go have fun." Ending with that, he wrapped the sponge around the bridle's leather and continued cleaning, moving back into his office. He was a man of few words, but Ginny still felt a deep kindred connection with him. When she had come out here for the first time, she had known nothing about horses, but he had been patient and taught her how to ride, how to work with them, how to read their thoughts and anticipate when they would kick or when they were bored. She lived in a magical world, but sometimes she felt that no place contained more magic than this stable.

Her hands lithely worked out the knots in Belle's tail, combed out any snarls in her mane, and smoothed out her shiny copper coat. By the time she had finished, Belle looked like a horse fit for royalty, even if she was slightly pudgy and aging rapidly. Ginny kissed the swirl of white on her forehead and grabbed the bridle off of the rack. Working the aged leather in her fingers, she felt it give softly, loosening up. Once the bit was warmed in her fingers and the leather loose enough for a ride, she slipped it over Belle's head, smiling as the mare delicately took the bit in her teeth. A bareback ride seemed like just the thing on this cold fall day. She grabbed her jacket and pulled it back on, zipping it all the way up to her neck.

She lifted the reins over Belle's head and led her out of the barn, pulling the door shut behind her. The grass knolls and faint trails spanning around them looked so inviting that Ginny's fingers could not move fast enough, adjusting the buckles on her bridle and strapping on her helmet. Stepping onto a nearby rock, she vaulted onto Belle's broad back, clutching mane. They set off in an ambling walk, swinging along gently.

Big thunderheads, huge dark clouds full to their max with precipitation, were rolling overhead through the aquamarine sky, but Ginny ignored them as they strolled along the edge of the forest. Belle was so delicate that she hardly made a sound, walking over the fallen leaves, and her rider's seat was secure and strong, adding to their subtle, gentle motion. They moved alone in peace for a long time, just enjoying the quiet of nature and the peace before the imminent storm. Suddenly, a distant sound, almost like rumbling thunder, rolled into their range. Ginny squeezed the reins softly, and Belle stopped, ears pricked and muscles tensed.

Coming tearing out of the trees, as if the devil himself were chasing them, came a horse and rider. The horse was huge, possibly over eighteen hands high, and his strides seemed to shake the ground each time his hooves smashed down. Fire glistened in his eyes, glowing against the onyx coat that was lathered with sweat. Ginny watched with fascination; it was rather like watching a train wreck. As they came closer, still thundering in a blistering gallop, she could see the man riding more clearly. His face was tight with intensity as he leaned low over his mount's neck, urging him still faster in his headlong flight. Draco Malfoy obviously rode helmetless, reasonless, and fearless.

There was a morbid beauty to the dangerous run, and Ginny could not tear her eyes away even as they blasted past her and Belle. Her gaze followed the perfect leg placement, the supple, straight back, and open shoulders Malfoy had mastered; he was a textbook rider, correct to every detail yet using his ability to flirt with danger and tempt disaster. She could so easily imagine the horse's long legs tangling when he hit a tree root, could see them tumbling to the ground, could see Malfoy's dashing mastery of equestrianism destroyed as his head crashed against the earth. Suddenly unable to continue watching without doing something, she gathered up the reins in cold-numbed fingers and clucked to Belle.

"C'mon, girl, let's go," she urged. Belle moved into a trot and then a canter, gaining momentum with each creaky stride. With ready leg and encouragement, she got her older mare into a hand gallop, but they stood no chance of catching up. Releasing some of her own cautious habits, she released rein and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Belle gathered her hooves up under her and hit a new gear of speed. When they were within twenty feet of Malfoy and his mount, who were plunging on faster than ever, Ginny opened her mouth and called out desperately, "Stop!"

At first, she saw no result, but then the big horse wheeled around and halted, head held high and mane blowing backwards in the stiff, icy breeze. There was a long delay of sheer silence, and Ginny just stared at the picturesque pair before her as she pulled Belle back down to a walk. With a sudden and uncharacteristic whoop, Malfoy leaned low over his horse's neck and they were off again, galloping straight towards her. She halted Belle, standing her ground, but felt her stomach clench into a violent knot as they got closer. A first rumble of thunder echoed over the land, as if ominously warning her to move. When the mighty horse was only a few feet from them, she cried out, digging her heels into Belle's side. The surprised mare shot forward, squealing, and they whipped past Malfoy in the opposite direction, narrowly avoiding a collision.

Before she could yell at him, he had whipped his mount around and was on her heels again. She pushed Belle faster just as the rain began to fall lightly, splattering around them. The sound of hoofbeats pounded in her ears as they pummeled towards the stable. It was back in sight now, and Ginny felt almost panicked. Belle's ears were pinned flat against her skull as she ran with all her might, but still the other pair was gaining on them, and judging by the dangerous look on Malfoy's face, it was not likely that he would work to avoid a crash.

"Go, Belle," she pleaded against her horse's mane, legs squeezing against her sides and hands inching up the neck, begging for more speed. She had never gone so fast on horseback before, and she could not tell if the feeling, leaping inside of her and racing over her skin, was exhilaration or a direct result of her fear. All she was certain of was that she could not wait to reach the barn.

Behind her, she suddenly heard the hoofbeats cease and heard a deep voice calling, "Whoa,"

She eased on the reins, and Belle screeched to a halt, breathing heavily. Each breath the mare took shook her entire body as she wheezed painfully. Anger hit Ginny, replacing the fear in an instant. She slid off of the horse, feet hitting the ground. Her hands raced down Belle's legs, checking for injury or heat that betrayed pain. Once she had assured herself that Belle was fine, she turned to look at the purpose of her anger and concern. Malfoy was sitting ramrod straight on his huge horse, who was lathered with sweat and foam worked up from the reins rubbing his neck. Malfoy looked strangely like a gentleman as he sat there, holding onto his panting steed with a proud yet unreadable expression etched like stone onto his face. His look was so distant and far away that Ginny could not come up with words at first. It only took her an instant, though, to find her voice, and she called through the falling rain,

"What the _hell_ was that?" Her first three words were spoken very slowly and explosively, as her face, red from the wind and cold, flushed darker with anger. He did not answer; instead he dismounted, loosening his horse's girth and running up his stirrups in a deliberate silence. Ginny stood watching him, mouth agape. After that, how could he just ignore her? He ran his hands along his horse's legs, doing the same thorough injury check she had done. Finally, he straightened up and looked straight at her.

"These horses are tired, Weasley. They need water and a good toweling off," he growled in a low voice, leading his horse into the barn. As his back turned on her, she felt something snap inside of her, and fresh exasperation rolled in.

"I asked you a question, Malfoy, you wanker!" She shouted so vehemently that Belle shied away from her, squealing. "Sorry, girl," she lowered her voice and soothed the mare's deeply frazzled nerves, following everyone's least favorite Slytherin into the barn. Cold air had seeped in through building's cracks, and the temperature was not nearly as warm as it had been earlier when the sun was out and heating the stones. Malfoy was untacking his horse in the center of the aisle way, and he motioned for her to shut the doors. She did.

"And I said the horses are tired," he answered finally, without a trace of an apology or sympathy or explanation. His tone was the same cold, even, detached one as always. She gritted her teeth and moved into Belle's stall, slipping the mare's bridle off. For the first time, she really took stock of the horse's condition and felt a stab of empathy jolt inside of her. The poor old girl was still breathing hard. She jostled the water bucket lightly to encourage the mare to drink, and as Belle lowered her muzzle to the water, Ginny reached over to grab the towel hanging over the stall door. Her hand reached it the same time as Malfoy's. Their eyes locked, and she could almost imagine sparks flying except for the fact that he looked neither angry nor upset in the least. Instead, he looked completely disinterested, very indifferent.

"I will go get another one," he said quietly, starting to release the towel, but she caught his wrist.

"In a second, you will, but right now you're going to answer my bloody question," she hissed. He twisted his wrist from her grasp easily, and the smirk that suddenly found its way to his lips surprised her.

"Tell me, Weasel. What makes you think being here makes things any different? What makes you think you can ask me questions and expect straight answers?" His voice was wickedly amused and devilishly condescending. She frowned.

"Because in the castle we usually just avoid each other and I never have any questions as a result. But here, you just ran a horse like a madman and chased me in an absolutely idiotic fashion! So I think being here made things different already, so you might as well give me a straight answer," she replied harshly, biting back her words to avoid shouting around the horses. She hated the way her voice and words instantly followed the shape of his, making him the natural leader of the conversation. Instead of answering her, he turned and walked towards the tack room, probably to grab another towel.

Ginny returned to Belle, toweling her off and putting out her grain with a hateful sigh. She moved out of the stall, latching it, and sat down on an upended crate to watch Malfoy toweling off his horse and simmer; she was still angry, but she was no longer exactly certain as to why. He had chased her or so she had thought, but would he really have hit her? With the moment behind them now, it was easy to believe that she had imagined the frightful expression on his face and the recklessness he had apparently shown. As she watched him now, toweling off every inch of his horse with a sort of careful routine, it was even easier to believe the panic of earlier to have been falsely contrived. Ginny considered leaving, but she could still hear the rain pattering on the roof, and she did not feel like walking back to the castle in it.

"I've never seen you so frightened," Malfoy said suddenly, looking at her. His expression was still amused as if he were laughing at her. He did not laugh, however. She wondered if he ever actually laughed. Probably not, since the bastard did not have enough goodness in him to make such a happy sound.

"I _was_ frightened," she answered coldly. "You were behaving like a lunatic, though I don't suppose I could have expected more from you,"

"Still," he paused, tossing the towel aside and leading his horse into a stall. Ginny's eyes moved up the nameplate on the door. The big black horse was named Cobalt. Appropriate. "I've seen you in some rough situations, and I have never before seen that same look in your eyes. Normally, when afraid, you just rely on your Bat-Bogey Hex," he smirked.

"I don't think it would have helped in this situation," she replied caustically. She tried to imagine that if she glared at him enough he would disintegrate.

"You are so touchy. I am just making polite conversation," his voice was so deeply laced with sarcasm that she could not believe he dared to suggest he was being polite.

"Sod off, Malfoy,"

"I would, really, I would, but I don't want to get wet again, so I'm going to stay in here until the rain stops. You, however, Weasley, are more than welcome to sod off to wherever you see fit,"

"Merlin's beard!" She growled in frustration, throwing her hands up and rising to her feet. He was infuriating. His calm, composed, and damned cold composure was driving her insane. Why wouldn't he betray some emotion, be it anger or hatred or anything other this indifferent, callous, uncaring form? She hated him for it. He opened his mouth to reply, probably to say something sarcastic, biting, and clever, but was interrupted when Eli Phillips' office door opened. The man stepped out, holding two cups of tea.

"Draco, Ginny, it looks like you all will be in here for a while, what with the rain and all. So, I brought you something warm to drink. Oh, and you know there are chairs in the tack room if you want to go sit in there," he said brightly, moving over with the slightest of limps. The old man hid his age well, being active and enthusiastic, but Ginny could see that as the cold and damp settled in for the coming winter, he was struggling more and more with bad joints and arthritis. She got up and took the cups from him, meeting him halfway.

"Thank you, Eli," Malfoy said politely, and Ginny whirled to face him in surprise, sloshing some hot tea out onto her hand. She yelped, but was still surprised by the warm, kind note his voice had taken on when he was speaking to the old stable keeper.

"You're welcome, Draco. Careful, Ginny, it's hot," Eli replied, moving slowly back into his office and shutting the door behind him. It latched with a soft click. Malfoy moved over to her quickly, taking the saucers and cups of tea from her and setting them on the crate where she had been sitting. He looked at her arm, where the tea had splashed on, and she watched as he stared at the burn, bright red.

"What? Feeling satisfied because you surprised me and caused me to hurt myself?" She said darkly, rubbing her wrist.

"Of course," he said with a sarcastic note before continuing, "I was observing the result of my manners. It's rather different than usual. Most of the time, my politeness has a positive effect, but in this circumstance, I see it is more suitable for me to be uncompanionable and rude," he said, in a strange voice. She gave him a sideways look, picking up her cup of tea now and moving towards the tack room. He was already in the process of moving.

"Are we talking about my hurt wrist as the 'circumstance', or something else entirely?"

"We are talking about all my dealings with you. Clearly you prefer me at my rudest,"

"Actually," she replied, taking a seat in a chair and crossing one leg over another. She took a sip of her tea before continuing; it was still too hot to be enjoyable so she blew on it softly, watching steam rise and curl in wisps over the brown liquid. "I was not surprised aversely to your manners themselves; I was just surprised that they existed,"

"You believed that I am always arrogant, impolite, cold, and stiff, correct?"

"Actually, yes,"

"Ah, there lies your mistake. I only take on those traits with those of lesser rank, importance, or intelligence,"

"Oh, so those considered as your equals are deserving of another side of you?"

"Naturally,"

Their words were formal but almost cordial, a relaxed banter of conversation, batting from one party to another with hesitation or true animosity. It was playful dislike that they harbored at the moment, though neither of them appeared to realize it.

"I see," she concluded. A loud boom of thunder sounded, seeming to shake the stone walls around them. Several saddles rattled on their racks as a result. Once the sound petered off, she continued, "So which am I?"

"Excuse me?"

"Which am I: of lesser rank, lesser importance, or lesser intelligence?" A smirk, somewhat resembling one of his, graced her features. He looked at her for a moment, almost expressionless, and then a smile broke out on his lips, moving into place slowly and slightly hesitant. It made her smile to behold it. While the expression seemed foreign on his features, it was not unattractive, and she was tempted to tell him that he should try it more often, though she held her tongue.

"In this moment of surprisingly cleverness, I think you might only be of lesser rank," he finally managed, but the retort lacked his usual cynicism and hateful twinge. "Rather than lacking in intelligence and importance as well,"

"How kind of you to consider me clever. I know it must be hard for you to condescend to even speak to me," she replied with summoned coldness, setting her now emptied tea cup on the floor beside her chair. Looking back up to him, she was struck by the strange look on his face. He seemed interested, intrigued, and was leaning forward in his chair in a way that suggested he was about to rise. As if following hidden cues, the rain got louder, pummeling against the roof of the building so that she could barely hear the words accompanying his standing up.

"I think I've found myself desiring to condescend to do more than talk to you," he said with a soft, throaty sincerity and a look in his eyes that did not suggest a game of chess as he moved towards her. Ginny leapt to her feet, taking a step backwards.

"You overstep your place, Malfoy," she hissed, hitting the wall and trying to glare at him viciously. He chuckled softly, coming closer. Some of the intensity of earlier had returned to his face, but she saw none of the danger there, only handsome, roguish intensity.

"No, Weasley, I'm allowing you to overstep yours," he replied deeply.

He reached her in only a few strides, and he made no maneuver of hiding the desirable tension he had just created. Her breath caught in her throat as he stood over her, tall enough that her head was level with his shoulders and lower neck. He was looking down at her, and even this close, his expressions were still difficult to read, to determine.

"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing," she warned, voice dropping to a very low note. He smiled, leaning closer.

"You didn't know what the hell I was doing before, but you still participated," he countered.

"Against my will," she protested fervently. His hands hung loosely at his sides, but she saw a movement in his fingers just before one hand lifted to catch her chin and tilt it towards him.

"Well, try that again," he concluded simply, leaning his lips down to hers. Though it was gentle enough, there was nothing tender or affectionate against the kiss. However, it was a moment of breathless connection with danger, and in that second, Ginny found that she liked playing with fire. When his lips parted hers, she remained tilted upwards, looking at him. "So tell me, Weasley, is it still against your will?" His voice was very quiet, so low that it was almost inaudible. He did not wait for an answer before he kissed her again. She was sure her eyes had betrayed her answer.

The next forty minutes of Ginny's life was feverish delight, delirious passion, and a first time of walking on the wild side. She learned her first lesson of lust, of a passion and desire and need borne completely from a fatal attraction to another person, an attraction with no love and no affection. Lust did not, however, lack in pleasure; she could never have forgotten the hot touch of his hands trailing down her body, the way his tongue deftly parted her lips, or how she had gripped at his shoulders for support as she cried out his name, his actual name. He had sex the same way that he rode, hard and fast, flirting with danger and tempting disaster. It was to be the first and only time she called him Draco. Never once through the proceedings did he call her Ginny.

When they had finished, the storm outside had as well, and they put on their clothes, shared one last lustful, fiery, desirous kiss and parted ways forever.

X

Yes, Hogwarts had a stable, tucked away on the far eastern edge of the Forbidden Forest, located where few would find it or stumble upon. For those students who did find it, though, it was keeper of their secrets, their guilty pleasures, their fire, and their passion. Their memories of it would never diminish, and old Eli knew when each student left the school for good, their classes would be forgotten, once familiar faces would fade from memory, and names would be beyond them completely.

But no student who had ever experienced it would forget the passionate drama played against the backdrop of a stable and to the music of hoofbeats.

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Disclaimer: I do not own Ginevra Weasley or Draco Malfoy. I do however own the notions for Belle, Cobalt, and old Eli, so if you want to use them, just tell me.

Author's Note: Those of you who often read my work (and profile) regularly will understand that this idea has been itching at my brain for a while without taking actual shape. Two days ago it took actual shape as a short, one-shot story, and this is the result. I appreciate constructive criticism, and I love reviews and reviewers! Thank you!


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